“Inside Baseball” is for those in-the-know.
A particular bit of familial inside baseball must have begun with Homer Simpson.
In a household in which all of my children inherited the mathematical gene that, alas, eluded my liberal artsy self, “pi” makes frequent appearances among its symbolic numerical brethren.
Whenever the word “pi” is spoken aloud, someone is likely to chime in with “Mmmmmmmmm. . . .pie.”
We’re homophonic people.
Today, of course, is Pi day: 3.14.
And how, on this of all days, could I fail to share the geological magic that carved out from inside a rock one perfect slice of pie (pumpkin, I am guessing), and left it garnished with pebbles and plated on the tiny stretch of shore to which I was drawn by the sight of sudden sunlight dancing on a river’s edge?